


Kittens for Ovaltine

by Wotwotleigh



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: Animals, Cats, Horseback Riding, M/M, POV Jeeves, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-06-20 05:03:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15526644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wotwotleigh/pseuds/Wotwotleigh
Summary: Jeeves is disappointed when he has to postpone his annual shrimping holiday to accompany Bertie to Aunt Agatha's estate at Woollam Chersey. Several surprises await them both there . . . including some new four-footed residents. I am writing this for the 2018 Jeeves & Wooster Gift Exchange.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MeFish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeFish/gifts).



The trouble began on a grey and misty afternoon a scant week before my annual shrimping holiday in Bognor Regis. The moment Mr. Wooster crept guiltily into the kitchen, I suspected that my plans were about to be derailed. 

“What ho, Jeeves,” he began. He cast his gaze here and there about the room, but avoided my eye. “What ho, and all that. Polishing the silver?” 

“Yes, sir,” I replied, allowing my voice to betray no hint of trepidation. “Is there anything I can do for you?” 

“Oh, no,” he said, absently picking up a spoon and setting it down again. “I just thought I’d toddle in and say hullo.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“Well . . . goodbye.” 

“Goodbye, sir.” 

Mr. Wooster retreated, and I allowed myself a sigh. It was clear that the young gentleman had encountered some manner of “soup,” as he is wont to call it, and was expecting me to extricate him therefrom. Under normal circumstances, I do not object to helping Mr. Wooster with these little contretemps of his. In fact, I rather enjoy it. I had been particularly anticipating this shrimping expedition, however, for the almanac promised excellent conditions. I scrubbed the cream jug with excessive vigor and awaited his inevitable return. 

“Ah, Jeeves,” said Mr. Wooster, reappearing as if on signal, “a bit of a complication has arisen.” 

“Indeed, sir?” 

“Yes. The thing is, my Aunt Agatha has invited me to her place up at Woollam Chersey for the next two weeks.” 

I suppressed a second sigh and set down the cream jug. “I see, sir.” 

“She’s laying out the fatted calf for some species of American tycoon, and she wants me to keep my ghastly cousin Thomas from getting underfoot. I tried to wiggle out of it, but I could hear her sharpening her scythe over the wire. There’s nothing for it but to gird the old loins and ride into the jaws of death. You appreciate my position, Jeeves.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Anyway, it pains me to ask this of you, for I know how much you were looking forward to chivvying the unfortunate crustacean citizens of Bognor Regis, but I’m afraid this is one of those times for all good men to come to the aid of the party. I need you by my side, Jeeves.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

Mr. Wooster’s expressive face was a mask of relief and gratitude, which was almost enough to soothe the sting of disappointment. “Bless you, Jeeves,” he said. “You stand alone.” He retreated once more. 

\--- 

The drive to Woollam Chersey the next day passed in moody silence. Mr. Wooster was glum and preoccupied, as he typically is before any encounter with Mrs. Gregson. It was not until we had nearly reached our destination that he finally spoke. 

“What was that bit of yours, Jeeves?” he asked, as the spreading grounds of Mrs. Gregson’s estate came into view. “Some blister to the something something, you know the one.” 

“'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came,' sir.” 

“That’s the baby. I could sit down with that Roland bird and tell him a thing or two about Dark Towers.” 

“Undoubtedly, sir.” 

“They don’t come much darker than Woollam Chersey, Jeeves.” 

“Indeed not, sir.” 

“Well, shift-ho,” he said despondently. I applied my foot to the gas, and we wended our way up the long drive. 

Loath though I am to admit it, I, too, felt despondent. I enjoyed these excursions to Woollam Chersey little more than Mr. Wooster did. I attempted to console myself with the thought of the estate’s sizeable lake, which offered fine fishing prospects. Still, my dark mood persisted. 

My ruminations were interrupted by a most unexpected sight as we pulled up before the hall. A white horse abruptly appeared from around the eastern corner of the hall and cantered toward the car. Although the animal was kitted out in full riding tack, no rider was in evidence. 

“Jeeves,” said Mr. Wooster, bolting upright in his seat, “that’s a horse.” 

“Astutely observed, sir.” 

“An American Saddlebred, unless I miss my guess.” 

I gazed at him in some surprise. “You know the breed, sir?” 

“Oh, rather. You can’t very well spend as much of your childhood as I did around my Aunt Dahlia without picking up a thing or two about horses. But we are straying from the crux of the matter. What the devil is it doing here, Jeeves?” 

“I could not say, sir,” I replied. “Perhaps Master Thomas can enlighten us.” For as we spoke, Mr. Wooster’s young cousin emerged, red-faced and panting, from around the same corner that had produced the horse. 

“Hoy!” wheezed the child. “Whoa, Marmite, you silly ass!”

“What ho, Thomas,” said Mr. Wooster, with no great enthusiasm.

Master Thomas glowered back at him. “Oh,” he said, “it’s you.” 

“I’m afraid so. What the dickens are you doing fooling about with that horse?” 

“She’s mine,” replied Master Thomas, eyeing Mr. Wooster in a challenging manner as he caught hold of the horse’s reins. 

“Oh, really? And what galloping fathead thought it would be a good idea to put the poor beast in your care?” 

“Mother, if you must know. I told her I especially wanted one.” 

“Good lord. Whatever possessed her? Whatever possessed you, for that matter? I never pegged you as the gee-gee type.” 

A reverent expression passed over Master Thomas’s face. “I saw a picture of _Greta_ with a horse just like this one.” 

“Are you still mooning over Greta Garbo, Thomas?” 

Master Thomas gaped at him, affronted. “Cor, what a stupid question! I guess I oughtn’t be surprised, though. What would you know about true love, being engaged to a different girl every other day?” 

“And I suppose you’re the expert on the subj?” said Mr. Wooster coldly. 

“A slime mould would be an expert compared to you. Anyway, I can’t very well ask Greta to marry me someday if I don’t know how to ride. Only I got stuck with this idiot.” With a nod of his head, he indicated the horse, which had approached the car and begun to thoughtfully nibble at Mr. Wooster’s hat. 

“She has my condolences,” remarked Mr. Wooster, gently tugging his hat away and giving the animal a pat on the nose. “Where is your mother?” 

“Probably in the back garden with that American pillock.” Master Thomas’s face darkened. “He wants to marry Mother, you know.” 

“Gosh! Well, God be with him, brave soul. Who is he, anyway?” 

Master Thomas shrugged. “Some old stiff-neck.” A strange gleam stole into his moss-green eyes. “He’s got far too much side for his own good, if you ask me. Someone ought to do something about it.” 

“Try anything, and I’ll biff you before you can say teuf-teuf. I’ve got my eye on you, you young louse.” 

The child muttered something vituperative under his breath and began attempting to mount the horse. His efforts were met with little success. 

“Hold the horse, you ass, not the saddle horn,” said Mr. Wooster. “No wonder the poor dumb chum keeps running away from you.” He leapt nimbly from the car and turned to address me. “Jeeves, take the car round to the garage, would you? I’d better help the little pimple before he breaks his foul neck, not that it wouldn’t be an improvement.” 

“Very good, sir,” I replied, and pulled away, leaving behind what would undoubtedly have been an amusing spectacle. A strange sense of foreboding had settled upon me. This stay, I felt, was destined to be taxing to an unusual degree.

Were I a superstitious man, I would have been deeply disquieted when a small but rotund black cat sauntered across my path a few moments later, as I carried the bags up to the house. She paused to chirrup at me, and I nodded politely and continued on my way.


	2. Chapter 2

In fact, so preoccupied was I that I soon forgot about the small but rotund black cat altogether. I repaired to Mr. Wooster’s room and quickly set his personal effects in order, brooding all the while. I then ventured below stairs to the servants’ hall in search of tea. 

Dulcie, the housemaid, was seated at the table, reading the latest issue of _Hutchison’s Mystery Story_. I gently coughed to announce my presence. 

“Why, Mr. Jeeves!” exclaimed Dulcie, lowering the magazine. “I didn’t expect you here. Aren’t you meant to be off in Bognor Regis next week?” 

“Mr. Wooster deemed my presence necessary,” I replied, feeling a renewed pang of disappointment. 

She smiled fondly at the mention of my employer’s name. “And how is our Mr. Wooster?” 

“He is . . . much as he always is.” 

In an instant, Dulcie’s demeanour transformed from kindly indulgence to steely-eyed suspicion. “Don’t tell me you’re growing tired of him already, Mr. Jeeves,” she said, peering at me keenly. 

I realized that my tone had perhaps betrayed a trifle more vexation than I had intended. “I am fond of Mr. Wooster,” I protested hastily. 

“Fond is as fond does. We all know what you’re like. What’s the longest you’ve ever stayed with an employer?” 

“Five years.” 

“And how long have you been with Mr. Wooster?” 

I considered for a moment. “It shall be five years Sunday, come fortnight next.” 

“Hmm,” she said, straightening her sagging magazine with a decisive flick of her wrists. “You’re due to come over all wandering eyes and itchy feet any day, then. What’s wrong with this one? Couldn’t get him to part with a pair of argyle socks?” 

“I have no plans to leave Mr. Wooster’s employment,” I said coolly, but I confess I felt less resolute than I sounded. Her cheek had quite unmanned me. 

“We’ll see. Do you fancy a cup of tea after your long journey?” 

“If you please.” 

She sniffed haughtily and turned her attention back to her magazine. “You’ll find the tea things in the kitchen, Mr. Jeeves.” 

\---

I found myself in a contemplative mood as I sipped my tea a short while later. Dulcie’s impudence annoyed me, but I was forced to admit that I understood it. She was greatly devoted to Mr. Wooster, having known him since he was a mere slip of a boy and she not much more than a girl herself. Her attitude toward myself had always been less than sanguine, for in domestic circles I had acquired something of a reputation—deserved or otherwise—for capriciousness. 

As I pondered our recent conversation, I found myself distinctly disconcerted by my own incertitude. I could not deny that I had felt a certain restlessness of late.

It was not that Mr. Wooster was a disagreeable employer. Quite the contrary, in fact. The young gentleman was congenial, amusing, and generous to a fault. He was also extraordinarily tractable—a most highly desirable quality in an employer. And yet, at present, it was this very quality of Mr. Wooster’s that I found so vexing. Had the gentleman a modicum of the Presence possessed by my previous employer, Mr. Montague Todd, I would not have had to forgo the briny air and dancing waves of Bognor Regis in favor of the oppressive atmosphere of Woollam Chersey. 

Having finished my tea, I pushed my unwelcome ruminations aside and retired to my quarters for a brief rest with an improving book.

\---

Some time later, I proceeded to Mr. Wooster’s quarters to help him dress for dinner. I nearly tripped over the small but rotund black cat as I crossed the threshold. The animal was reclining directly inside the doorway. She continued to recline there, gazing up at me with lambent yellow eyes, as I struggled to regain my balance. 

“You all right, Jeeves?” asked Mr. Wooster, who was stationed by the full-full length mirror, in the act of pulling on his dress trousers. 

“Yes, sir. There is a cat in your bedroom.” 

“Astutely observed, Jeeves. That’s Ovaltine. She’s Thomas’s cat.” 

“I see, sir. I was unaware that Master Thomas kept a cat.” 

“He didn’t, until recently. He saw a picture of Greta Garbo with a lion cub in a cinema magazine a couple weeks back. After protracted negotiations with Aunt Agatha, this is the result. She’s a personable enough little beast—the cat, I mean, not Aunt Agatha—but I think she’d be well advised to lay off the heavy cream and kippers for a spell. She looks as though she swallowed a rugger ball.” 

I peered more closely at the feline. “I believe her condition is a delicate one,” I remarked. 

“Oh, ah!” said Mr. Wooster, a look of realization dawning on his face. “Kittens in the offing, eh? Well, well, well! When will the happy event take place, d’you suppose?” 

“Lacking the expertise of a veterinarian, I find it difficult to speak on the subject with any certainty, sir. Judging from the creature’s appearance, however, I imagine the delivery may be imminent.” 

He brightened visibly. “It could happen while we’re here, then? Gosh, perhaps there will be a bright spot in this benighted sojourn after all.” 

“Perhaps so, sir. Your trousers, sir, if I may say so, should be an eighth of an inch higher. One aims for the gentle break over the shoe.” 

“You know best, Jeeves. Have you heard anything about this guest of Aunt Agatha’s? It’s hard to imagine what sort of weird bird would willingly and knowingly seek her society, but I suppose it takes all sorts, what?” 

“Indeed, sir. I am afraid I have received no intelligence on the gentleman in question.” 

“Oh, well. I suppose I shall find out soon enough.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“In any case, I expect dinner will be an absolute riot. But I suppose if things get hairy, I shall have the thought of bouncing baby moggies to buoy up the wilting spirits.” 

“Thank Heaven for small favours, sir.” 

\--- 

Having attended to Mr. Wooster, I slipped out to the kitchen garden in the hopes of smoking a cigarette in solitude before the dinner gong sounded. Upon surveying the twilit landscape, however, I soon observed that I was not alone. A familiar figure leaned against a rose-twined balustrade, puffing on a fat Cuban cigar. 

I began to retreat, but the person had already noticed me. “Who’s there?” he grunted, squinting at me in the dim light. 

I cleared my throat and nodded deferentially. “It is I, Jeeves,” I replied. “Good evening, Mr. Stoker.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Jeeves?” said Mr. Stoker, blinking at me in surprise. “Aren’t you Marmaduke’s old butler, the one who quit on him?” 

“Valet, sir,” I corrected him gently. One must learn to blithely endure these little misapprehensions, particularly from Americans. “I am a gentleman’s personal gentleman. I did serve briefly in Lord Chuffnell’s employ.” 

“Right, right, Jeeves the valet. What the Hell are you doing here, Jeeves?” 

“I am here in my capacity as Mr. Wooster’s manservant, sir.” 

Mr. Stoker, who had been puffing heartily on his cigar as I spoke, was incapacitated for a moment by a violent coughing episode. “Wooster!” he cried hoarsely, once he had recovered sufficiently for utterance. “You don’t mean Bertie Wooster?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“The lunatic who nearly disgraced my daughter?” 

“I believe the young persons had a brief understanding, sir, yes.” 

“Well, what the Hell is _he_ doing here?” 

“Mr. Wooster is visiting his aunt, sir.” 

“Oh, yeah? And who’s his aunt?” 

“Mrs. Gregson, sir.” 

Mr. Stoker flung his cigar to the earth and ground it violently beneath the heel of his shoe. “Aw, Hell!” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Somebody coulda warned me.” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

“Tell me something, Jeeves,” he said, a pleading note edging into his voice. “Am I cursed?” 

“I really could not say, sir.” 

“I don’t know what else could explain it. I can’t seem to take more than two steps in this damn country without tripping over that miserable mook. Agatha seemed like such a respectable dame, too.” 

“If I may say so, sir, one cannot not choose one’s relations.” 

Mr. Stoker regarded me archly. “Maybe not, but you can damn well choose your bosses. You’re too good for that guy, Jeeves, and you know it.” The dinner gong sounded, and he strode away, muttering a series of oaths that I shall not reproduce in these pages. 

\--- 

If pressed, I would find it difficult to define what it is about Mr. Stoker that makes his presence such an unnerving one. Perhaps it is because he is, to borrow a nautical phrase, a loose cannon. While Mr. Wooster has encountered a number of formidable adversaries during the course of our association, I have found most of them too predictable to be terribly intimidating. Not so Mr. Stoker, who gives the impression of caring little for either the conventions of polite society or the rule of law. 

As disconcerting as I had found even this brief encounter with the man, I had to imagine that Mr. Wooster would be in a state of near nervous collapse after being forced, unexpectedly, to endure dinner in his company. 

Knowing that my employer would seek my aid and counsel as soon as it was convenient to do so, I stationed myself in his quarters as the end of the dinner hour approached. Some perverse part of my psyche urged me to find an excuse to make myself scarce, but I resisted. It would not do, after all, to prove Dulcie correct about me. 

In order to occupy myself—and provide a natural pretense for my anticipatory presence in his room—I set out to tidy Mr. Wooster’s sock drawer. Upon opening the drawer, I was greeted by the sight of a small but rotund black cat nestling amongst the socks. 

How the animal managed to enter the closed drawer, I could not guess. It was clear, however, that she had placed herself there of her own accord. She blinked lazily at me, made a soft trilling noise deep in her throat, and began to purr. 

“Good evening, Madam,” I said. “I beg your pardon, but I cannot allow you to remain here.” The cat merely flexed her forepaws in reply. I knelt down to scratch her behind the ears. “Mr. Wooster is an indulgent gentleman,” I remarked, “but he would be displeased if you were to birth your kittens on his socks.” 

As I made this remark, Mr. Wooster burst into the room. “Disaster has struck, Jeeves!” he cried. “I say, who were you talking to just then?” 

“Ovaltine, sir.” I gently lifted the cat from the drawer and displayed her to him. She uttered a quiet grunt of protest, but made no attempt to escape from my arms. “She was attempting to nest in your sock drawer.” 

“Good lord! Well, better send her along to Thomas. And see if you can’t scare up a basket and a few rags, because Heaven knows he won’t have the sense to do it.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“But wait, I’ve gone off the rails. We have more pressing concerns. Do you know who Aunt Agatha’s guest is, Jeeves?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What! Then why did you tell me you didn’t when I asked you before?” 

“I was not yet privy to that information at the time, sir. I made the discovery shortly before the dinner gong sounded.” 

“Blast!” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Damnation!” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

“Am I cursed, Jeeves? What’s that look for?” 

“I beg your pardon, sir. I experienced a momentary attack of déjà vu. I should consider it highly unlikely, sir.” 

Mr. Wooster reached out and rubbed Ovaltine’s cheek with his thumb in a moody and distrait manner. “Well, this just tears it. Not only am I stuck in this Providence-forsaken dump for the foreseeable future, but I’ve got to spend said f. f. rubbing elbows with J. Washburn Stoker. I can’t even enjoy the elemental pleasures of the feed trough without having to endure the brute popping up through a trap every two seconds and growling in my ear about passing the bread rolls. It’s enough to turn the food to ashes in your mouth, Jeeves!” 

“I can only imagine, sir.” 

“Stoker was poking holes in me with his eyeballs all evening. I’m quite sure the only reason he didn’t eviscerate me on the spot is that he knew his hostess wouldn’t have approved of having her nephew’s entrails spread all over the dining room carpet.” 

“One shudders at the thought, sir.” 

“And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he got into a row with young blighted Thomas over the soup course.” 

“What was the nature of Mr. Stoker’s disagreement with the young gentleman?” 

“Thomas started burbling about Greta Garbo, and Pa Stoker remarked that he didn’t think she was such very hot stuff. He compared her unfavorably to Mae Murray. Thomas turned a rather striking shade of purple, called Mae Murray a washed-up old hack, and told Stoker to go chew coke. Aunt Agatha sent him off to bed without dessert, and for some reason everyone seemed to blame the whole rotten business on _me_.”

“Good heavens, sir.” 

“You see how right I was, Jeeves,” he said solemnly, “asking you to rally round. I wouldn’t last a minute on my own in this hell-house.”

“Yes, sir.”

He must have noticed the slight chill in my voice, for his manner grew suddenly meek. “Your shrimp will keep for a little longer, won’t they, Jeeves? I’ll release you the moment the coast is clear, old top, but I simply can’t spare you until this danger has blown over.” 

“Of course, sir. If you have no further need of my services, I shall deliver the cat to Master Thomas.”

“Right ho, Jeeves,” said Mr. Wooster—a little sadly, I thought


	4. Chapter 4

Master Thomas answered my knock with an impassioned plea that I might go away and boil my head. I knocked a second time. 

“Oh, what do you _want_?” came the child’s answering howl. 

“It is Jeeves, Master Thomas,” I replied. “I have your cat, sir.” 

Abruptly, the door opened. Master Thomas squinted up at me through puffy, pink-rimmed eyes. “Cor! I’ve been looking all over. Where was she?” 

“In Mr. Wooster’s sock drawer, sir. I believe she was planning to deliver her kittens there.” 

“Are the kittens coming soon?” 

“In the next few days, I should imagine.” 

“Do you think it would have ruined Bertie’s socks if you’d let her stay there?” he asked wistfully. 

“It strikes me as extremely likely, sir.” 

“Well, I wish you’d have just let her alone, then. It would be awfully nice if something good could happen around here for a change.” He took the cat from my arms and released her listlessly into the room behind him, whereupon she lay down upon an oriental rug and began to groom herself.

I was about to ask Master Thomas if he required my services any further. Before I could do so, however, the child began—as young gentlemen are so often wont to do—to unburden his sorrows to me. “Gee, but I hate him!” he opined. 

“May I ask to whom you are referring, sir?” 

“Stoker, of course! He’s positively rotten. I can’t understand what Mother sees in him.” 

“Does Mrs. Gregson return the gentleman’s affections?” 

“Don’t call him a gentleman,” snorted Master Thomas, kicking petulantly at an ottoman. “And what do you mean, ‘affections’? ‘Affections,’ my eye. He just wants the hall. I know his type. I can see right through him.” 

“I see, sir.” 

“No, you don’t. You’ve never had to hang around while J. Washburn Stoker tried to marry your mother. I hope he steps on a rake.” 

“Perhaps there is some salubrious aspect to the situation that you are overlooking,” I suggested. 

“Does ‘salubrious’ mean rotten?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Then you’re wrong. There’s nothing about it that’s not rotten. Name one good thing about having Stoker for a father-in-law. I’ll bet five shillings you can’t.” 

I reflected for a moment. “He is extremely wealthy.” 

“Ha! As if _I’d_ see a measly tuppence of it.” 

“He is also capable of being most hospitable, when the mood strikes him. He owns a luxurious yacht, aboard which he is fond of entertaining guests in lavish fashion.” 

“I loathe boats. I always come over seasick.” 

“He has a son who is quite close to you in age.” 

“Absolutely foul, I should imagine.” 

Casting my thoughts back over my admittedly limited interactions with Dwight Stoker, I was forced to concede that there was something in what the young gentleman said. A strained silence passed between us, which I finally broke with a quiet cough.

“One wonders, sir, if Mr. Stoker might be less inclined to marry Mrs. Gregson if he were made to feel an unwelcome guest in her household.” 

Master Thomas eyed me with surprise and, I fancied, a measure of grudging admiration. It was clear that the prospect intrigued him. “Give him the third degree, you mean?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I’d love to, but I don’t know where I’d find the time, with Bertie always flapping around me like an idiotic vulture. I’m meant to be with him all day tomorrow, you know. First he’s giving me riding lessons with Marmite in the morning, then we’re off to some revolting moving picture. Mother forbids me to see Greta’s latest!” he added in a mournful aside. “Can you imagine?” 

“That is most unfortunate, sir.” I refrained from commenting that Mrs. Gregson’s reluctance to allow her child of tender years to view a picture entitled _Flesh and the Devil_ did not strike me as entirely astonishing. 

“Then, in the evening, he’s going to help me decline Greek nouns. As if Bertie could decline a Greek noun if his life depended on it! And that’s just the first day. Mother’s got the next two weeks all planned out with more of the same rot. I won’t have a chance to blink at old Stoker, let alone slip a frog into his bed or put tacks on his chair.” 

“One appreciates your difficulty, sir.” 

“And when all that’s over,” he concluded bleakly, “I go back to school at Malvern. Stoker will have the run of the place, and he knows it. I guess there’s nothing for it.” 

To my surprise, I perceived a familiar tingle of anticipation along the back of my neck. For the first time since my arrival at Woollam Chersey, I felt fully myself. There was no denying or resisting it—I was about to take on a case. 

I had, of course, solved innumerable problems for Mr. Wooster’s friends and relations in the past. I had never imagined that young Thomas Gregson would number amongst my clientele, however. Perhaps it was the nature of the problem itself that aroused my interest to such a degree. Interfering directly in the affairs of Mr. Wooster’s aunt would be a difficult enough business. Add Mr. Stoker into the mix and I was, as Mr. Wooster would say, playing with trinitrotoluol. 

I gave another quiet cough.

“Master Thomas,” I ventured, “it occurs to me that one might approach this problem from another angle.”

“Oh?” said the boy, peering at me keenly, but not without a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “How’s that?” 

“Mr. Stoker is of a volatile nature, and he is, in unguarded moments, inclined to speak and act indelicately. Perhaps, rather than attempting to rout out Mr. Stoker directly, we might find some way to make Mrs. Gregson see that the proposed alliance is an inadvisable one. I imagine that it would not be difficult to uncover evidence of some past indiscretion on Mr. Stoker’s part, or even induce him to perform an uncouth act in your mother’s presence that would extinguish any nascent sentiments before they have a chance to fully bloom.” 

Master Thomas appeared powerfully affected. “Gee!” he exclaimed, and then fell into silent contemplation for some moments. He frowned and plucked at his bottom lip. “But,” he said at last, “it’s the same old problem, isn’t it? How am I supposed to do all that while Bertie’s hounding me the whole time?” 

I allowed myself a smile. “Leave it to me, sir.” 

“You?” he said incredulously. “But . . . why would you help _me_? What’s in it for you?” 

“The gratification of a job well done is reward enough, Master Thomas,” I said with a bow. “I endeavour to give satisfaction.” 

Master Thomas beamed and seized my hand, giving it a hardy shake. “Coo! Bertie’s always going about how jolly wonderful you are, but I guess I never really believed it until now. I figured anyone who works for Bertie must be as big an ass as he is. How are you going to do it?” 

“The specifics of the plan as yet elude me. I can assure you, however, that I shall give the matter my very best attention.” 

\--- 

Some hours later, having completed my duties for the evening, I sat peacefully ensconced in a rowboat on the lake, a fishing pole in my hands and a half-bottle of brandy by my side. I had been idly contemplating my task for Thomas, but was drawn from my drowsy ruminations by the soft lapping of oars in the water and the smoky-sweet aroma of a fine Cuban cigar. 

“Well, well, well!” said an unmistakable voice from the darkness. “Look who else had the same bright idea. It’s a fine damn night, isn’t it?” 

I sat up and doffed my hat as the other boat drew up alongside my own. “Good evening, Mr. Stoker. The night is indeed a lovely one.” 

“Nothing like fishing in the moonlight, eh? Still, I can’t help but think this is just the kind of night a man should be spending on the ocean waves, strolling the decks of the _Gypsy Queen_ with a cocktail in his hand and the salt spray in his hair.” He grinned affably, and the moonlight glinted off his large, white teeth. “Ah, well. I suppose a cold lake and a leaky old rowboat will have to do for now, huh? But you stoic Englishmen are always good at making the best of things. I admire that about you.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

He leaned back and drummed his fingers on his waistcoat in a satisfied manner. “I’m a happy man tonight, Jeeves.” 

“I am gratified to hear it, sir.” 

“You want to know why I’m happy?” 

“I am on tenterhooks, sir.” 

He took a contented puff on his cigar. “Because I’m this close to sealing the deal with the old dame,” he said, holding up his thumb and index finger in order to demonstrate the proximity of which he spoke. “One more moonlit stroll, and I’ll have her in the bag.” 

“In that case, sir, I believe preemptive congratulations are in order,” I remarked. And then I allowed myself my second smile for the evening, for at that moment, an idea began to germinate and a trout began to nibble in delightful synchronicity.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this, MeFish! :) It is still in progress, but more will be forthcoming soon.


End file.
